Hearts don't break around here

Chapter 8:wedding cake

Sophomore Year (College)

Lance stares down at the essay in front of him. He spent seven dollars getting this piece of shit printed out and spiral bound, only to have it marked up within an inch of its life with angry, red pen. The small, aggressive yet elegant cursive on the corner of the paper reads ' See me after class.'

Lance's hands shake. This is the third assignment he has gotten back this week with a grade below a C. It's only Tuesday. He has somehow managed to fail three times and the week isn't even halfway over. He glances up at his professor, who is laughing at a joke that a student told in the front row of the lecture hall. A very unfamiliar emotion--something between anger and bitterness--coils tightly in Lance's stomach. God, fuck this professor. Fuck that asshole who always sits in the front row, kissing ass and answering every single question. Lance scoffs to himself. He bets that the essay on that boy's desk isn't scribbled on with red pen. Maybe it's in blue pen instead. Maybe it's got a giant A+ on the front cover. Maybe the teacher's note says, 'great job', instead of the unfriendly message Lance received.

The professor proceeds to tell the class that he was very impressed with how the essays turned out. Lance clenches a fist. Everybody in this room did well. Everybody but him. They probably all know , too. They all can probably tell. They are probably judging him. The anger swirls around in his gut, mixing dangerously with the large dose of self loathing that was already settled there before he walked into the room. He feels so frustrated he could cry. He thinks about his family for a moment; how they are paying for his education. How he is squandering it because he's just not smart enough. He thinks about his fleeting optimism; how seven days ago he sat down to write this actually thinking it would be a success . How stupid does one have to be to keep failing, and failing, and failing before they realize that maybe, that's all they can do?

Lance doesn't realize he's stood up until he notices that the class has fallen silent, all eyes looking back at him. He looks down and sees his books and papers piled messily into his arms, and he holds them close to his chest. He knows he's scowling. He can feel the strain in his features. Everyone needs to stop looking at him like he's some kind of wounded animal. He needs to get the fuck out of here. His fists clench even harder against his books. He wants to shout. He feels the overwhelming urge to toss his textbook at his professor. To scream, " Fuck you! Fuck you fuck you fuck you-- " because he's so frustrated and he's so fed up with failing and how is it fair that some asswipe with a bad comb-over can make him feel like such horse shit ?

He's storming out of the classroom angrily before he even realizes it. Frustrated tears fill his eyes as he pushes out the door. His heart beats rapidly in his chest. It thumps against his ribcage. It vibrates in his ears. He feels lightheaded. He knows that these are signs of an anxiety attack. He knows, deep down, the this is his anxiety talking. That things aren't as bad as they seem.

But it doesn't matter what he knows , because what he feels is so much more real.

He keeps pushing forward and doesn't stop walking. He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't care. He tosses his essay into a trash can and continues past it. His heart still thumps angrily. Fingertips burning with the urge to curl into a fist and smash into the nearest expanse of drywall. He fights the urge.

Fucking anxiety medicine. He's going to flush it down the toilet when he gets home. It hasn't been doing shit . Why is he still miserable ? Why can't he get these stupid, stupid thoughts out of his head? Why does he still feel like he's dying when he's literally medicated to feel better? Is he really that untreatable? Is he past the point of no return? God, he hates that medicine. He hates the medicine, and the rapid beating of his heart, and the fuzziness in his vision. He hates the anxiety , the sadness, the anger, the loathing, clawing at his heart and splitting his chest open, painful and unforgiving. He hates it. He hates it.